


(un)requited

by kirayukikira



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, i h8 myself, madison thinks its unrequited but it isnt?? n so does tjeff, thomas jefferson gets drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirayukikira/pseuds/kirayukikira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What?” Madison barked as he set down his quill. “What do you need, Thomas?” he corrected himself, speaking softer this time, as he took in Jefferson in all his drunken glory. With his jacket swinging from his right hand, an untucked and partially unbuttoned shirt, and an entirely unbuttoned waistcoat, he looked, quite simply, like a mess. His cravat hung loosely around his neck, and only one of his shoes was buckled. Madison sighed to himself as he looked Thomas up and down, at the sight of his friend truly and utterly degraded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(un)requited

**Author's Note:**

> i love madijeff n i love pain

Madison didn’t look up as Jefferson stumbled through the doorway of his office. The door swung loosely behind him, wafting the horrid scent of brothels and booze into Madison’s nostrils. It was bad enough that Jefferson spent his time engaging in such ungentlemanly pursuits, but rubbing them in Madison’s face was just adding insult to injury. It was almost too much. But it would never be too much, Madison thought, because it was Jefferson.

 

“Jaaaaaames,” Jefferson slurred, swaying in the spot where he stood. “Jaaaaamesss.” Again, more insistent. The man is as childish as he is tall when intoxicated, Madison thought.

 

“What?” Madison barked as he set down his quill. “What do you need, Thomas?” he corrected himself, speaking softer this time, as he took in Jefferson in all his drunken glory. With his jacket swinging from his right hand, an untucked and partially unbuttoned shirt, and an entirely unbuttoned waistcoat, he looked, quite simply, like a mess. His cravat hung loosely around his neck, and only one of his shoes was buckled. Madison sighed to himself as he looked Thomas up and down, at the sight of his friend truly and utterly degraded.

 

“Help,” Jefferson sputtered weakly as he dropped his coat to the floor. “Help, James, please…”

 

Madison stiffened a little at the sound of his name. Thomas never called him James, never, unless he was in a state like he was now, and even then it was rare. Nevertheless, Madison crossed the room to help Jefferson with whatever it was he needed.

 

“I need, I need…” Jefferson repeated to himself like a mantra, like he was struggling to find meaning to even those, the simplest of words. He blinked sluggishly, eyes turning downward to Madison as he approached. A dopey smile crossed his face, but it barely reached his foggy eyes. “I need you, James.” Madison rolled his eyes a little, shook his head, as he reached to grab Jefferson’s fallen coat. He ignored Thomas’ response and stood up to button his shirt.

 

“Jaaaaames,” Jefferson whined again. Madison turned away from Jefferson’s alcohol-soaked breath in an effort to avoid breathing in the almost noxious fumes and continued buttoning up Jefferson’s shirt. When he finished, he buttoned up the man’s waistcoat and stiffened as he felt Jefferson lean into the touch of Madison’s hands on his stomach.

 

“Thomas—” he began, but was cut off when Jefferson lunged towards him, tried to land a kiss on his lips. Over the years, Madison had become accustomed to dodging Jefferson’s kisses, so he ducked out of the way easily. The drunken man, however, was thrown off balance by his own lunge and swayed forward, forcing Madison to hold his arms, which in turn caused him to drop the coat. Thomas laughed.

 

“Jaaaames,” he giggled, leaning forward slightly, so that he was speaking directly into Madison’s ear. If Madison hadn’t been angled slightly to the right, Jefferson would have been speaking directly into his mouth. “Jaaaames,” he repeated, whining this time, more desperate, as he struggled against Madison’s iron grip.

 

“Thomas, I’ve told you before, I won’t do anything with you while you’re drunk, it’s not—” He let go of Jefferson’s arms and reached down again to grab the coat. “It’s not right,” he finished as he stood up.

 

“Oh, boo hoo,” Jefferson complained as Madison turned him around. “Nothing’s right anymore. It’s all about honor and glory and patriotism and whatever other bullshit people think matters. None of that matters. Honor doesn’t matter. Who cares what’s right anyways?” As Jefferson said this, Madison slid the coat over Jefferson’s shoulders, then turned the man back around to face him. “We shouldn’t do what’s right anyways. We should just do what makes us happy—” Jefferson lunged forward again, but instead of catching him, Madison took a step back.

 

“Thomas, please—” Madison looked down. “I can’t—” He looked up again, and found Jefferson looking at him with bright doe eyes. Despite his cynical words, Jefferson looked as if he had found some semblance of hope in the world. Madison only hoped it wasn’t in him.

 

“Why not?” He said, indignantly. “Why can’t you? Why can’t we?”

 

Madison only shook his head incredulously and stared at the floor. He loved Jefferson, by God, did he love Jefferson, but sometimes he just wasn’t willing to accommodate. Sometimes it just got to be too much.

 

“It’s not right,” he repeated again, and Jefferson stomped his foot.

 

“Do you want this?” he asked firmly, taking a step forward. Madison gave no response other than to continue staring at his shoes. Jefferson took one shaking hand and used it to tilt Madison’s head up towards his. “Do you want this?” he asked again, more gentle.

 

“It’s not a matter of want, Thomas. It’s—” Madison hesitated. He turned away from Jefferson’s hand. “It’s not right,” he repeated, looking down.

 

“Who gives a damn about wrong or right, James, do you want this?” Again, Jefferson caught Madison’s chin with his hand.

 

Madison sighed, resigned. “Yes,” he breathed, eyes raking almost hungrily up and down Jefferson’s features. “God, yes, but it’s not, it isn’t—”

 

“It’s not right, I know.” Jefferson scoffed, taking a wobbly step back from Madison, and dropping his hand to his side. “I don’t get it,” he sighed, almost angry. “You—you’ve been with other men before, haven’t you? I— What makes me different? What makes me so _wrong_ for you?”

 

Madison hesitated. It wasn’t as if Jefferson was going to remember any of this in the morning, but still James had his doubts.

 

Why was Jefferson so wrong for him? Was it the fact their decades of friendship could all be destroyed in a single kiss? Was it the fact that both of them, indeed, were married men? Infidelity had never stopped either of them before, though. So, what exactly made Jefferson different? It wasn’t as if James didn’t want to try anything—God as his witness, he wanted to try—but did Jefferson? He never proposed anything when he wasn’t drunk and never mentioned his late-night/early-morning begging sprees the morning after, when he would stumble out of James’s bedroom, mumbling something about coffee and breakfast and going home. Madison wondered if this was due to shame; maybe Jefferson felt so humiliated that he had come to Madison in such a state yet again that he wished never to speak of it. Or perhaps, even worse, he’d forgotten it entirely. Maybe James could use that to his benefit, could take advantage of Jefferson’s forgetfulness and do what he wanted so desperately to do—but he wouldn’t do that. James was a good man. Maybe James feared rejection in the morning, feared waking up next to Jefferson’s warm body only to be greeted with screaming, shouting, with curses and cries of sodomy and assault. James didn’t want that. James didn’t want to be rejected by the man he loved. He knew Jefferson didn’t love him back; why else would he only come in the dark of night, in a drunken stupor, to beg for the physical comforts of his best friend?

 

James looked back up at Jefferson. “Thomas,” he said, firm but resigned, “You must come to bed now. We’re not doing anything until you’re sober.” Jefferson groaned softly, indignantly, and crossed his arms over his chest. Madison walked over to him, placed a hand on his elbow, and guided him out of the door, down the hallway and into James’s guest bedroom.

 

James stood in a corner, facing the wall, as Jefferson stripped out of his clothes and pulled the extra sleeping garments Madison always kept, specifically for nights like these, in the boudoir. He didn’t dare look. He never looked.

 

Only when Jefferson called out to Madison to let him know he was done did he turn around and help Jefferson into bed.

 

Thomas whispered something into the pillow, but Madison didn’t hear his words. He only heard a slew of syllables slung together by the alcohol floating around in Jefferson’s brain. As Jefferson settled deeper into the bed, Madison reached a hand up to stroke his hair.  

  
It wasn’t until Madison knew for sure that Jefferson was sleeping that he leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “I love you, Thomas.”

**Author's Note:**

> will i ever resolve this ?? no


End file.
